Always Running Out of Time
by Azrael Cantemir
Summary: The clock is always ticking for people, but it seems to count down faster for Mello. Join him in his twenty seconds of insanity, and aid him as he wages war against fate-the winner is undetermined, and it could be anyone.


_**A Chance Encounter**_

_**A/N**:__Right, so I really don't know where I'm going with this. Actually, I kind of do, but not really. It's just one of those wake-up-at-three-in-the-morning-with-some-nonexistant-plot-eating-away-at-your-exhausted-mind things and my first possible multi-chaptered endeavor in the world of FanFiction. Also, happy almost Thanksgiving. Have some apple pie and Dr. Pepper for me. _

_~Azrael_

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own Death Note._

**_Suggested Listening_**_: __Sail by AWOLNATION_

* * *

_**Mello: Twenty Seconds of Insane Courage**_

'M.I.H.A.E.L. K.E.E.H.L. Your real name—it's Mihael Keehl.'

Well damn. This was playing out brilliantly. How the hell did he get my real name? How could he? The only people who knew it were six feet underground. Cold. Dead. Gone. So how?!

'It's over now,' the Yagami bastard carried on, oblivious to my slight inner turmoil. 'It's time to turn yourself in. If you give up, I won't kill you; you have my word on that.'

I remain silent, my mind running through the millions of scenarios that could take place now. I could surrender and not die, or I could surrender and he would still kill me. Neither are quite to my liking. Actually, none of this really is, but too fucking bad. I can complain about it later. Of course, I could pause, take a breath, and do the unthinkable. Just twenty seconds of insane courage. That's it. Yagami opens the Death Note. My decision is made.

He says, 'You know how this works. I write your name, and you will die. Let go of that trigger, and put your hands in the air.'

Aha, nope. Not today. My eyes narrow with determination. I know what I'm going to do, and I think he does too, but I still decide to try reasoning with him. I lower my hand holding the button that could rip this place apart.

'Yagami—'

'Don't move!' he cuts me off. How rude. 'I've written your first name, and it will only take me a second to write your surname.'

Well, that's that then. 'I am truly sorry,' I say, and I am. I don't want to blow this place up any more than he wants to write my name in that abhorrable notebook. 'For what it's worth, I give you my word that I never wanted to kill you.' _Because when I press this button, we're all dead men. _It's implied, but not said. Yagami is a smart man, so I think he understands without it being voiced.

Unfortunately, I so love irking people, and I must add, 'But tell me, Yagami, you've never killed someone, have you?' It's rhetorical; we both know he hasn't, but that wasn't really the point of the comment. I see Tristan rolling over to grab the discarded sub-machine gun. He opens fire. I see Yagami's face go through a rainbow of expressions: determination, confusion, shock, pain. A smug grin finds its way onto my face as he falls to the ground a defeated man.

Of course my success is short lived as the rest of the police squad burst in and quickly do away with Tristan. Pity.

And now it's my time to shine. The curtain is raised and my twenty seconds of insanity begin.

_Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…_

I grab the gasmask and secure it to my face.

_Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…_

The taskforce sees Yagami on the floor.

_Twelve, eleven, ten, nine…_

Silence, and then I am told that this is the end for me.

_Eight, seven, six, five…_

My thumb hovers over the button. I take a deep breath.

This is it.

_Four, three, two, one…_

Detonate.

There is a split second where nothing happenes, or maybe it is my imagination. Or maybe my mind is going five billion miles an hour and time slows down. At any rate, there is that pause before that awful thing happens. You know, like that moment between when you swerve and hit that tree?

Luckily that feeling doesn't last very long. Not so luckily, it was replaced by what can only be described as hell, and not the kind of I-just-failed-my-finals-my-life-is-over hell, I mean the holy-fuck-I-can-feel-my-skin-melting-please-just-let-me-die hell, and even that doesn't do the sensation any justice. It's undescribable and terifying. Don't believe me? Go blow up a building while still inside and experience the sensation for yourself.

I vaguely remember stumbling around in the fiery labyrinth chocking on smoke as I tried to find my way out before pitching over and laying there in utter defeat, allowing the flames to feast on my exposed flesh, utterly hopeless, before giving into the welcoming caress of unconsciousness.

* * *

_**Matt: A Beautiful Wasteland**_

Matt Jeevas is my name, Mail to my long-dead parents, so now I guess it really is Matt. Cool. So anyway, here I am, about to enjoy a smoke from my shiny new pack of cigarettes in my car, cruising down one of the many streets in the fifth district of Los Angeles, California, USA, North America, World, Universe, Infinity.

But that just isn't allowed, is it? Oh no, the malicious higher power(s) that be can _never _allow me one peaceful smoke. Perhaps it's against the universe's rules, and really, I should have been expecting it what with the numerous times I've run into trouble while smoking in a car—it didn't even have to be mine! So yeah, I should have been expecting it... Well, not _it _exactly, but I should have known something was going to happen like always; this time that something happened to be an exploding building. Was I shocked? No. Should I be? Probably. Did that really matter? Absolutely not. And finally, did I want to go take a look? Here, let me answer that with another question: is my name Matt Jeevas?

Turning a brilliant 180 in place accented by the lovely sound of squealing tires I hop out and immediately start choking on the smoke. I swear burning buildings produces more smoke than a damn brushfire. But don't get me wrong, I love smoke more than just about anything; that with my driving habits and diet of Red Bull and Fritos almost guarantees I won't make it past twenty-five, an ideal age to die. I just like my smoke packaged and infused with nicotine, not gunpowder.

And that's when I found him: a beautiful angel staggering about in a beautiful, hellish wasteland. The perfect place to die. My defeated angel and I lock eyes across the smoldering rubble, and even from this distance I can see those blue eyes are dulled by pain and beyond registering anything. He pitches over and the ravenous fire claims him.

I stand there, head cocked to the side, contemplating my course of action. Common sense says the angel died right there. Something tells me to stop standing around like an idiot and go save him. Common sense and I don't have the best of relationships, so I follow that other voice and step into a fiery wonderland full of soot and rubble. I pick my way through the maze of slowly dying fires and finally get a good view of this fallen figure.

He could be attractive if your definition of attractive encompasses any garish leather-clad, rosary-sporting organism. But I still stand by my statement that he could be if replaced the leather with jeans and some t-shirt or something. Possessing a gymnast's physique, pale skin with a flawless complexion, and honey-gold hair splayed out every which way, he truly could be a bloodied, fallen angel too perfect for even God if there was such thing as God.

Sirens pull me out of my revelries, and it seems they also pull him back to the surface of consciousness. So he is alive, just as I had thought. Trembling fingers reach out for me and soundless word form on his lips. His incandescent eyes seem to plead with me. I know what he's trying to say. He wants me to save him, so I do. I crouch down and scoop him up as gently as possible, grunting under his weight. Either he is heavier than he looks, or I really don't have any muscle. Regardless, I make it back to my car without dropping him and set the unconscious boy in the back seat (it seems he passed out again sometime during the transportation phase), gritting my teeth and trying not to think about him bleeding all over my baby, after all, a dying person trumps the upholstery of a car, right?

I get out of there as fast as possible and go over my choices. 1: I could get him to a hospital as fast as humanly possible, or b: I could take him back to my place and doctor him up myself. After just one glance at the boy I decide of choice b. Chances are he hasn't got any legalized papers and doesn't actually exist, so it seems I'm going to get to play doctor for a few weeks.

_Fantastic. Just bloody fantastic_, is all I can think as I make my way home with a complete stranger sprawled out, dying in the backseat of the Camaro. This'll have the neighbors talking for sure.

**_- end: A Chance Encounter -_**

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_And so we find ourselves at the end of Chater one or the end of a one-shot. I haven't quite decided what I want to do with it yet. Perhaps your reviews could give some insight? _

_If that weren't plain enough, that means review, people! Seriously, no one is going to bite your head off for giving advice or an honest opinion. It is actually incredibly helpful, so **reveiw**._


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